


Pancakes

by jaythewriter



Series: Misplaced Attachments [2]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, M/M, jay and mrs kralie are cute people who just want to help others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side-story within the Misplaced Attachments universe. Takes place the morning of Chapter 14. Jay and Alex's mother Christina have a tiny chat, and Jay discovers for perhaps the millionth time he is no good at hiding things from others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for multiple references to throwing up.

The creak of the bed reminds you of your bones, angry and demanding to be heard. Especially of your knees in particular; if you spent one more minute in front of the toilet last night, you think you would have worn away the skin.

Rolling over onto your side is easier than expected. Maybe you’re better after expelling the contents of your insides for so long? 

(You ignore the scarier thought that maybe you’re getting used to being constantly sick and that feeling nothing is really you being numb to something that is lurking beyond your mental reach.)

Tim’s on the floor. You remember offering to share the bed; you’ve done it before, when you didn’t have enough money to get two beds. 

This time though, he looked at you strangely, and something about his hesitation makes you think he wanted to, but for some reason, he decided not to.

Your gut tells you it’s got to do with the incident concerning Alex and you shacking up together.

Paranoia tells you that he thinks you’re disgusting and might try something. 

(even if you never have in the past, you never would, unless he--)

(no, no, you refuse to let your brain go there)

Logic wins out: he just doesn’t want to get sick by lying next to you. At least, it should win out, but-- what’s done is done, you both slept soundly. He’s still deep, breathing steadily and burying his face in the pillows he stole off the bed you’re in.

It’s not much different from another morning at a hotel, except you know you don’t have to go bolting up to pack and get ready to check out. Going back to sleep isn’t an option, though. Even after several weeks of silence and supposed safety, your body is refusing you the luxury of sleeping in, though you’re sure you’ll be back in bed before long. Sick or not, you don’t have much energy to spare.

You gently put your feet to the wooden planked floor and avoid the creaky spots as best as you can, passing by Tim’s restful form.

You peek out of the guest room, uncertain of the time. There’s a sliver of sunlight seeping out from the Kralies’ bedroom, but it’s not bright enough for it to be afternoon. 

When you first went through this hallway, you went right for bed, completely ignorant of your surroundings. Now that you’re awake and capable of imitating an actual human being, you’re noticing the portraits and photos hung upon the cheery green walls.

It’s fascinating, seeing Alex throughout his life. You can’t remember enough about school with him to determine whether he was really open about his family and home life. That combined with you being the nosey person you are, you can’t resist stopping at every photo and taking a good long look. 

There are plenty of photos where Alex is tiny and baby-faced. He’s squinting in the earliest ones. It becomes clear what the problem was when you come across a picture of him fussing over new glasses. 

You catch yourself smiling when you discover that the further you go into the collection, there are more and more signs of the director part of him emerging. He clutches a camera in a photo that’s hanging over the bottom of the steps, and below that one, a gold-framed one shows a teenaged Alex holding an award for best writer. 

(You’re not so sure you agree with the judges, whoever they might have been. But you’re smiling again, nonetheless.)

“Oh, I’ve got some way more embarrassing photos hidden away if you want to take a look.”

The voice comes from behind you. If you had fur, it’d be standing up. Whirling around, you find that you’re not the only one awake in the house-- Mrs. Kralie is looking over your head at the award picture, arms crossed over her apron. 

Seems as though Alex picked up his sneaking skills from her.

“I-- uh, no need, I was just curious,” you say, jumping off the last step. “What time is it?”

“Around seven, why?”

“Just making sure I haven’t slept the whole day away, I keep doing that lately,” you admit, shuffling your feet. 

“That’s okay, darling. You’re sick, you’re allowed to sleep all day,” Mrs. Kralie says gently, patting your shoulder and turning to head into the kitchen. You stay where you are, heat creeping behind your ears.

“...you heard me last night?” 

(god, you’d hoped that only Alex and Tim had heard you retching away in the bathroom, nothing but bile to spare from your stomach. the memory is enough to leave your mouth sour.)

“The whole neighborhood might as well have heard you!” 

Damn. 

You want to head back upstairs, cowed away by your embarrassment, but when you turn to do so, Mrs. Kralie clears her throat, recapturing your attention. She pulls a chair out from the kitchen chair and looks to you expectantly.

Seeing no other choice, you take the offer and pad barefoot across the tile floor to the chair. You settle in, hands in your lap and head down. Mrs. Kralie flits to the stove and fusses over a pan of something bubbly; you think it’s pancake mix, if you can trust your nose.

“...Miss,” you begin, only to be interrupted by an insistence that Alex’s friends all call her Christina. You nibble your lip at that, uncomfortable with the lack of formality. “Christina, I’m really sorry we barged in like this. We wouldn’t have if there was any other option, but--”

“Oh, hush,” she interjects, picking up a spatula from the counter. “Just because my husband is throwing a hissy fit doesn’t mean I am too. It’s not the most convenient thing in the world but my son is home, and I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

You can think of several things that would be better. Alex coming home without any marks of the past on him. No more dishonesty between family. Empathy in place of the apathy the man seems to have towards his parents.

(is it apathy, though? can you know for sure? you wouldn’t want to show yourself as you are now to your parents either. you’d prefer to keep it under lock and key.)

(maybe it’s none of your business and you should just be thankful that Alex put any effort into helping you and Tim survive.)

“I’m glad. Honestly,” you say softly. “I still wish I could do something to make things easier.”

A plate slides in front of you. Pancakes, just like you thought. You try to remember the last time somebody cooked for you. 

Nothing comes to mind.

“You don’t worry about a thing until Alex gets back to you, I’m sending his father after him today to talk things through money-wise,” Christina insists, taking the seat across from you with a relieved sigh. She wipes her hands on her apron, then looks at you with a frown. “Don’t you like pancakes? I hope you do, anyway, I kind of made them for you.”

For the second time that morning, blood is rushing to your face. You reach for the fork and knife she provided on the plate and hurriedly begin to eat-- and, fuck, they’re so fluffy, you nearly choke yourself trying to swallow them down.

“Th-thank you,” you utter between bites, finding you can’t put the fork down. “But, why for me?”

“Simple,” Mrs. Kralie replies, leaning her elbow on the tabletop. She looks at you closely, that frown on her lips tugging deeper into her face. It would worry you, except-- “You look so sad. Pancakes always help.”

“Sad?” you question, perplexed. 

(you thought you were doing a good job, keeping yourself together. you’re definitely not /not/ sad, but save for the people who happen to be closest to you, you didn’t think it showed.)

(maybe you’re just as transparent as ever.)

“Well, yes,” Christina says as though it’s obvious (your stomach sinks at that). “You were hardly speaking when you first came through that door. Wouldn’t even look at anyone. I wanted to do something then but you were so eager to get to bed. So I figured I’d catch you later on.”

Catch, she says, like she was hoping to pin you down. How peculiar, though, that somebody saw the parts of you that are a little off and decided to do something about them.

It scares you, feeling like see-through glass.

But her kindness is enough for you to push the fear aside for now and carry on eating, head down and a small smile on your face.

“Besides, a small wind could blow you right the fuck over. Could do with some carbs.”

This time, you really do choke, and she has to slap your back to get you back to normal.


End file.
